Kinky, Queer Love by John Theriac

Author:John Theriac
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: genderqueer, femdom, kinky, bigender, pegging, lgbt love, queer emotion, queer love, queer kink, nonbinary bdsm
Publisher: T.C. Mill

Out On the Inside

Everyone is a committee, a stir of voices and half-remembered sound bytes. We have our intentions and opinions, but those voices still speak, sometimes drowning out what we know or believe. It doesn’t matter if we give credence to them, if they’re even reasonable; these persistent ghosts linger within us, repeating their slogans like clockwork automata.

I have neither love nor respect for the people I encountered in high school. Being raised male, I spent more than my fair share of time around, for want of a better word, guys. This, I hasten to add, in an era that viewed itself as enlightened – don’t they all? – compared to its predecessors. To be gay would have been no big deal, or so they said. But the idea that someone, some ‘guy’, would enjoy being penetrated by ‘his’ girlfriend. That was just, like, weird, man.

Why do we give these voices such power?

Growing up, the internet was no help. Femdom scenes portrayed pegging as a punishment, something degrading and humiliating.

Degrading. Humiliating.

These words have power.

I tell you this, my love, not to indulge in some kind of pity-party for my own self-consciousness, but to explain. A sheltered, bookish, gender-uncertain young person like myself would log on to the internet, search for something, anything, in the realm of femdom that seemed loving, and enjoyable, and meaningful, and find the most tasteless garbage imaginable.

I knew, back then, that I must really be a submissive, if that wasn’t enough to put me off.

I knew, back then, that I must really be interested in being penetrated, if that wasn’t enough to put me off.

But oh, the voices it left in my head. Look too long at something, and it will imprint itself on your mind like an exposed Polaroid. You can paint over those grim images, those sketches of pain or uncertainty, but it takes time. It takes work.

It takes someone like you, my love.

I met you online, first. In between my coursework, I’d got in the habit of scrolling through profiles, not out of any intent to pursue or hope to be pursued, but simply to enjoy what people did with language, and how they thought of themselves. Everyone is a universe, a shape built out of the myriad experiences, thoughts, ideas, and desires that swirl around inside the sphere of their sensation. I said this, or something like it, to my college roommate once.

His response: “No wonder you don’t go on any dates.”

At the risk of being pedantic, I wonder what exactly he meant. That I didn’t go on dates because I was too busy gleaming the cube in our grotty little dorm to be bothered? Or that I didn’t go on dates because no one in their right mind would stand still for such nonsense?

I never thought to ask him if he went on dates.

So there I was, reading what other people had to say for themselves instead of finishing my paper on Liutprand of Cremona, bathed in the monitor’s pale radiation.

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